


Meet Cute is A Relative Term

by eigengrau



Series: Alphabet Cities [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint is a BAMF too, Clint swears a lot, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Mutants: But Not The X-Men Kind, Phil Coulson: BAMF, Pre-Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/eigengrau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is having a weird day. </p><p>Prequel to "Alphabet Cities".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meet Cute is A Relative Term

**Author's Note:**

> Oops, I accidentally a 'verse.
> 
> Well, sort of. I finished "Alphabet Cities" and decided that I didn't want it to end, so I'm writing some little scenes that take place in the same storyline, before or after or during the vignettes. This one is my personal take on how Clint and Phil met.

Of course, the girl doesn’t thank him for putting an arrow through the face of her assailant, who had been using one of his four arms (Seriously, what the fuck) to hike up her skirt. No, she just starts screaming, and then runs.

 

Clint is a little offended. Sure, he might look a little grimy, and yes, he did just kill a guy, but he at least deserves a, “Thank you”. Maybe a hug. Maybe even an offer to buy him dinner, whatever, it would be nice. His stomach grumbles and he nudges at the would-be rapist on the ground with the toe of his boot, rolling him over. The arrow perfectly pierced the third eye growing out of his forehead. The one surrounded by scales.

 

Seriously, what the fuck. Clint’s been in the _circus,_ for fuck’s sake, but he’s never seen anything like _this._

“You are one ugly mofo,” He mutters to the dead fish-guy, “And trust me, I used to share a trailer with Karl the Dog-Faced Boy.”

 

There’s a crunch from behind him, and a chorus of alarm bells go off in his head. Clint twists around, feet slipping a little on the slick floor of the alley, and finds himself face to face with-

 

Apparently Mr. Three-Eyes-Four-Arms has a buddy.

 

And holy _crap_. When Clint was growing up in the orphanage, there hadn’t been an abundance of reading material. He’d complained about it to Barney, who had first made fun of him (“Whadda you need books for anyway, Clint, Jesus, you little nerd-“) and then later stolen him an illustrated volume of Greek myths, begrudgingly ruffling his little brother’s hair. Clint’s got a pretty good memory, especially for pictures, and the guy he’s staring down in the alley on this dark, cold, rainy November night is the spitting image of the minotaur from his old book. Horns and all.

 

Horns that are attached to a lowered head.

 

A lowered head attached to a body that’s _running straight at him_ , FUCK.

 

It’s a credit to Clint’s circus-honed reflexes that he’s able to get his bow up before he’s horribly gored by Minotaur Dude. His horns smash into the tough material of the bow (Stolen from a sporting goods store) and the sheer force of the blow pushes Clint back until he slams into the brick wall behind him, knocking the air out of his lungs. Minotaur Dude keeps pushing, letting out a snort of hot air. Clint’s bow makes a horrible cracking noise, and he watches with a growing sense of _Oh shit I am so fucked right now_ as the fancy fiberglass snaps in two.

 

Minotaur Dude pauses, because apparently he’s not the brightest bulb on the Hannukah tree, and Clint takes advantage of the two seconds he’s got to pull back the shattered bow fragments in his fists and shove them, splinter-ey ends first, into Minotaur Dude’s shiny black eyes.

 

The sound he makes is horrible. The warm, sour blood that sprays onto Clint’s face is worse.

 

He ducks, gagging a little and wiping at his face with the sleeve of his threadbare coat. All his instincts are screaming _RUN_ and he gets about five feet before there’s a bellow and a huge hand grabs him by the collar, lifting him into the air. Clint struggles in Minotaur Dude’s grip, trying to wiggle out of his jacket, but the problem with second-hand clothes is that they’re often a size or two small, and the stupid fabric catches under Clint’s arms and holds him in the air like a vice. He’s stuck staring into the bloody, blinded face of a very pissed of man-bull.

 

He might be blind, but as his nostrils flare, Clint realizes that he doesn’t need his sight- he can _smell_.

 

This is not good.

 

Minotaur Dude roars something that might have been words but was honestly way too garbled for Clint to decipher and shakes him, hard. His legs jostle in midair like a ragdoll, and he can feel his teeth clashing against each other with a painful star-burst of sensitive nerves. He strains to reach back, to reach the quiver hooked over his shoulder. His fingers scrabble in nothingness for a second before they close on bristly fletching. _Gotcha._

 

He drives the arrow into the bloody wreck of Minotaur Dude’s left eye and lets out an involuntary yelp as he’s dropped to the ground, landing funny on one of his feet. His ankle twists beneath him and he swears a blue streak as pain pulses up through his leg. He ducks as Minotaur Dude swings his head from side to side in a berserker rage, making noises that are truly inhuman, and stumbles back.

 

It only takes a second of lost balance to catch him off guard.

 

The razor-sharp horn slices along his abdomen, cutting through his t-shirt like butter. Clint yells, clutching a hand to his stomach. When he looks down, there’s blood leaking out through his fingers.

 

A backhand throws him to the ground, head spinning. His flawless vision swims. There are two Minotaur Dudes advancing on him, enraged and snarling, and as they get closer they solidify into one hulking monstrosity. The horns gleam with a redness that Clint realizes, with a lurch of his stomach, is his own blood.

 

He’s going to die like this. Homeless, pathetic, starving, and murdered by some freak of nature straight out of Greek mythology. What a way to go. Clint grits his teeth, ready to face the Grim Reaper like a man.

 

Which is when there’s a deafening series of cracks, splitting the air like thunder. Minotaur Guy jerks a few times, stutters in his steps, and then falls to the ground in a pool of shadow. Clint stares at the prone body.

 

Someone’s helping him to his feet, supporting him. He’s lightheaded, and through a fog he can just make out the man half dragging, half carrying him away. He’s about Clint’s height, with thinning brown hair and cool blue eyes. He’s wearing what looks like a designer suit. He’s holding a gun in the hand that isn’t holding Clint.

 

The man glances at Clint. “Are you Clint Barton?”

 

All Clint can do is nod.

 

“I’m Agent Coulson, with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. We’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

 

There’s something about this guy that makes Clint relax, just a little. He shrugs and winces in pain- he’s definitely going to need stitches. “Okay,” He mutters. A dapper man in a fancy suit shoots a crazed mutant and then calmly declares that he’s looking for a homeless ex-carnie who uses an antiquated weapon to patrol the streets, looking for crime? Dapper guy sounds like he actually means it? Like maybe, just once, Clint is something special?

 

Weirder things have happened.


End file.
